"I am always happy to take credit where blame is due."--John Davis Frain

Friday, August 03, 2018

Flash fiction writing contest!

I've been serving as handmaiden to Her Grace, the Duchess of Yowl this week. Lots of petting, not quite so much working.

Her Grace was rather miffed to discover we had not had a flash fiction in her honor every day this week. I explained that most people read this blog for information on publishing, not purring. She was not mollified.

To assuage her bruised feelings, here we go!

The usual rules apply:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.

2. Use these words in the story:

yowl
fur
purr
sneer
whisker

To compete for the Steve Forti Deft Use of Prompt Words prize (or if you are Steve Forti) you must also use: caterwaul

3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the
prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: fur/furry is ok, but fur/ruffian is not; whisker/whiskers is fine but whisker/whisk her is not.

4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.

5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.

6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.

7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)

8. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.

8a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)

9. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"

11. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.

12. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.

37 comments:

“Remember when Ted used to help with these?”“His neer-do-well ass? ‘Help’ is being generous. I saw his kerning. Worse than yours.”“F U.”“Right back at you.”She sealed the envelop and placed it atop the large stack. “There, that’s the last ransom note.” “You’d think they’d eventually realize we never let anyone go. Thought that’d spur retaliation.”A shrug. “Yeah, but they still pay.” As will you. She eyed the magazine pages, the glue, grabbed the scissors. Then she buried their blade into her companion’s throat, prompting a caterwaul of agony.“Ow!”“Like you didn’t see this coming…”

A woman perched on the next barstool. “Pretty owl.”“Thanks.” Owl, cursed concoction of wires and flesh – tomatoh-tomahto.“Greetings,” squawked Xavier.She dimpled. We chatted.I hoped.Xavier and I hunt as a pack. If he would just keep quie—Xavier unfurled his filament-whiskers. “Madame, have you ever considered buying land on one of the outer planets? It just so happens… today… amazing oppor-tu-ni…” He trailed off in a series of purrs and whirrs.She sneered and left.I sighed and scratched my dementia-ravaged telemarketowl. “It’s okay. We’ll find someone to feed us.”A woman perched on the next barstool.

A blustering man comes to my hut. I skin a toad and wave horn of urial over his lap.A red-faced “maiden” is next. I whisk ergot with beak of snowy owl.Then a lonely man. I boil tongue of dove with a kitten’s purr.Shadows lengthen. The villagers leave. I sweep up amid my vials and jars and drying remains.Nails skitter in the thatching. Hooves clop outside, faster even than my heartbeat. Beating wings obscure the moonlight and many somethings slither past my feet.“We need an ingredient,” an eyeless newt sneers. “Heart of witch.”

It came out of nowhere,that scary surprise,lying prone on the floor -playing dead, I realized.Meow! I unleashed a loud caterwaulto scare the bad thing out the door, down the hall.The clock struck 3:30 -a.m., let’s be clear.My servant ran forth,all atremble with fear:“What’s that yowling, dear Duchess? Please settle your fur.“Would a whisker of tuna help bring back your purr?”I threw her a sneer, arched my back, looked askance.A plastic bag fright calls for more, said my stance.

His yowling sliced into my dreams the way my claws cut my foes long ago. I rose and stretched, showing nonchalance despite my aching joints. Peering from my eye-corners, I could see this was no ruffian. His fur was sleek and groomed and he purred at me, a sneering insult as he approached. He stopped a whisker-span away from me and stared. We battled in silence; no caterwauling to summon the fishmonger’s knives. Our fight was swift and I, slow. I retreated, seeking a dark warm corner in which to say farewell to this life. Six down, three to go.

'Hoot of tawny owl, tickle of fur, whisper of the turning page, purr of torchlight, cool of rain, curve of an embrace.'A sneer formed underneath the cat's whiskers. How mundane her witch was. Matchmaking was for computers.Just as well she'd succeeded in getting her paws on the ingredients. Tonight this town would see some old-style sorcery: Loveless Lucy trying to write her novel while her head spins, Clueless Kevin terrifying the kids at camp with his 'bear' back, and the renewed community spirit- rain like glue helping everyone stick together.

“Shucks, gal. Yur ma’s too old and furgetful to remember the whys and whatfors of baby caterwaulin’,” bewhiskered Uncle Clem sneered from his usual seat by the sideboard.

“Hush yur mouth, old fool, ‘fore I run you outta my kitchen. Lucy, gimme that colicky child, then fetch my corncob pipe from the mantelpiece. I’ll fill its bowl with some whacky tabacky then blow the smoke ‘crost baby’s cheeks. He’ll be purrin’ like a happy kitten real soon.”

The campsite at night held snowy owls, stars, and wonder. Ice crunching under his boots created the perfect mix of sound and silence to spur recollections of his youth: snowman building, sledding, peace of mind. A time almost forgotten, before sin soured his soul.

The furlough hadn’t been planned but was needed, especially after the sneers and shouts his accountant made when she discovered the truth. He got her to stay quiet in the end, just a tight squeeze around the neck to cut off her caterwauling.

He missed the authorities by a whisker, but he missed his innocence more.

The Snickersnee rose from the sulfuric clouds of the Last Planet's surface. Mighty lepton engines purred, flinging ethereal particles against the mystical membrane of another continuum to generate superliminal thrust.

Captain Elasmo steered through a wonderland of untraveled sensations: the Universal Perimeter. Songs called to him like a chorus of oily angels. Time expanded and contracted, setting ordinary space aspin. The ship yowled in protest as undiscovered forms of matter wandered within a whisker of the tender hull, barely diverted by deflectors...

The Snickersnee rose from her smelly shipyard and embarked upon its maiden voyage.

T’was ‘n eerie night at the barn. Full of shadows and mews.Fuzzy owl searched for his favorite little kitty. He needed the purrfect location to meet his furry new friend. He’d put the time in. Kitty loved to play with him.Hide and seek. Chase the mice. Share a snack.Now the time had come—before Kitty got any bigger.A plan. A pounce. No caterwauling about. He’d whisk ‘er off her paws and enjoy some playful times with her.Kitty waited. She’d brought her Daddy, Wild Cat, to meet her new friend.Surprise!

The Duchess’s ne’er-do-well handmaid hummed tunelessly as she toiled. Just that morning she’d been spurred into action by a splendiferous manuscript. “Enough caterwauling,” said the Duchess. Her whiskers twitched ominously. “But your majesty,” squeaked the servant, “you get to sing. And not always that...” “That?” The lackey found a spine. “... that melodiously,” she retorted. The Duchess’s normally owlish countenance infused with rage. She beckoned an executioner (whom she kept on retainer) to come further into the room. “Decapitate her!” the Duchess commanded, and she sang when the axe embedded itself in the hapless manuscript. Somewhere in Canada, a novelist sighed.

Yowls of laughter broke the night. The stink of sulfur mingled with honeysuckle and jasmine. It was a perfect night to be young, spurred on to take adult footsteps, compelled by the sneers of peers—or of demons, if you looked a little closer. Whiskered lions priding themselves on their youth, offered needled pleasure. A blight on the neighbourhood needing to be cleansed. They failed to see the hunters circling. The lionesses protecting their cubs. Moving in for the kill.

There was a collective mew at the sound of the forbidden word. Queens covered their eyes. Even the old tom in the corner was quaking.

Berthilde strolled to the center of the room, pupils wide and focused. One paw struck like lightning. With a grimace, she swallowed the offender in one gulp. “Never did like spelling bees,” she muttered.

“Szechuan down,” she said, as the boys filed in from the field. “Sneer as I can tell, you boys is famished! I’ll fix some food fur yowl.” Her purr love of cooking made her whisker self to the kitchen, where she laid out the everyday china.Soon she had made about one ton of soup (and fortunately she had enough cookies for dessert). She thought about inviting her German neighbor, Mrs. Hottensauer, but decided against it, reflecting that “Ever since my husband came back from Siamese against having fureign guests!”“It’s ready!” she called out to the boys. “No Peking!”

Kitty woke to the purr of Laptop. She hated him. Since he'd arrived, she'd become an afterthought. To prove it, she caterwauled for breakfast.

It came.

An hour later.

Dry food.

Kitty had enough. She yowled and pounced, sank her teeth into Laptop's tail. Laptop hissed, and Kitty shot across the room, slammed into the wall, fur standing on end. But Laptop? His tail sizzled and smoked.

Kitty smoothed her singed whiskers and gave Laptop a sidelong sneer. She'd won. Laptop would never purr again.

My husband caterwauled as I traipsed in after midnight. I waltzed past him and sneered. It stung my swollen lips, bruised by another man’s rough and raunchy kisses. I let out a yowl when he caught me naked as I slipped out of my stilettos and fur coat in our bedroom. “Come take a shower with me, sweetie,” I purred, waggling my index finger and strutting into our master bath.

I was exhausted, but not too tired to secure my inheritance. I planned to shave him with a straight blade. The whiskers on his neck were beginning to annoy me.

I found him in the sea. Tiny, bedraggled, whiskers drooping. Exhausted after hours of yowling for the person who’d left him in the water with a sneer.No one to hear but me.Only me, wandering in the night, to dry his fur and warm his paws until I extract a purr, then cover his mouth and nose.Before the sun rises he’s dangling, stiff, pinned by the tail to the door that’s next on my list, and I’m safely home again, unseen.I only wish they were all so easy.

Simba and Cookie met in the street, going after the same bird. They both missed and crashed into each other. Simba let out a yowl as Cookie’s teeth sunk into his fur. She, incensed, sprang back, letting out a caterwaul that matured into a sneer. When they both calmed down, he noticed her blue eyes and long whiskers. She noticed his sleek black fur and devil-may-care attitude. He was just so different from all the other tomcats.

The Fabulous Blog Readers

Search This Blog

The 411

I'm a literary agent in NYC. I specialize in crime fiction and narrative non-fiction (history and biography.) I'll be glad to receive a query letter from you; guidelines to help you decide if I'm looking for what you write are below.
There are several posts labelled "query pitfalls" and "annoy me" that may help you avoid some common mistakes when querying.